


Hallow'ed Be Her Name

by VIII (Valkyrien)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Actually This One Is All About Various Kinds Of Self-Indulgence I Now Realise, Also - UK Setting, An Attempt At Using Footnotes To Explain The Previously-Mentioned References, An Awful Lot Of Self-Indulgence, And My Entry For This Year's Hallow(Rick!)een Shipweek Is Halloween-Themed For The Free Prompt, Because I Am Not But I'll Have You Know I Tried, Disclaimer: I Am Not Happy About This But I'm Not Happy About Much, F/M, Featuring Shireen The Zombie Queen, Happy Hallow(Rick!)een Everyone!, Heavy Bloody Metal (With Optional Rockabilly On The Side), Is Anyone The Least Surprised That I'm Showing Up Days Late For Shipweek, Modern AU, People Who Are In Rickon's Corner For Once!, People Who Are In Shireen's Corner For Once!, Rickon Under The Influence Of Unbound Hair And Red Wine, This Almost Didn't Happen Due To Illness And Personal Issues, Very Tight Skirts And A Crapload Of References To Seasonally-Appropriate Music And Film, We'll Call That A Theme - Halloween And Self-Indulgence!, Yes There Is An Obscure Addams Family Original Television Series Reference In The Summary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 00:09:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16482371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valkyrien/pseuds/VIII
Summary: Rickon doesn't care for Halloween, or parties, or people, and so of course he ends up at a Halloween-themed party full of people.The rest... is taxidermy. (Almost).





	Hallow'ed Be Her Name

 

 

 

   Rickon’s not sure he wants to be here.

 

 

   He’s told Sansa enough times over the years that parties – and particularly the kind she likes throwing and going to – are _not_ his thing, and she’s never taken it or him seriously enough not to drag him along anyway, insisting he just needs to give it a go and be more open to social experiences, which is _bollocks_.

 

 

   Rickon doesn’t mind socialising, he just likes to confine it to situations where he’ll be around people he knows and can actually stand, which neatly rules out almost every social opportunity available including anything family-related, and _this_ sort of do is not his cup of tea at all.

 

 

   He doesn’t even _like_ Halloween – was a time he just didn’t care about it, but since getting to college he’s started to actively dislike it for the contrived, overly-commercialised bit of yank-pandering nonsense it is; nothing but an excuse to sell a load of crap, dress up like a tit, and get pissed and go on the pull with an added edge of ‘spooky’ _naughtiness_ thrown in for flavour, everyone dipping their toes in the weird pool for a while like it makes them any more interesting than usual just because they’ve slapped on a tail or a pair of wire-framed tulle wings or something.

 

 

   Rickon is weird _full-time_ , is into ‘creepy’ imagery and all-black everything and listening to music with _odd_ or _morbid_ lyrical themes in the everyday. To him, importing something like this for a bit of a laugh seems ridiculous and faintly embarrassing, misplaced. He only really likes that it means all-black everything and things with skulls on are easier to get hold of this time of year. The rest of the associated pageantry he regards with detached ambivalence bordering on distaste.

 

 

   It’s all just a bit sad in his opinion, but he’s not too fussed about it in general as long as he’s not expected to have to do with it _directly_ . To Sansa and everyone else in the world though, it seems, it’s a great reason for a bash and a booze-up, and that means Rickon’s now stuck here in this admittedly cool-looking gargoyle-infested old pile one of Sansa’s peripheral mates has offered up for the night’s venue, wearing a pair of non-denomination _ears_ on a hairband Sansa stuck on his head in the car claiming he’d look _silly_ as the only one not wearing even a sort-of costume even though she was all done up like a fairy princess, wire-framed tulle wings and all, and it was honestly all a bit silly _already_ , and of course she abandoned him the _minute_ they got here to swan off with her horde of uni friends and hangers-on, leaving Rickon to fend for himself in a strange house full of people he doesn’t know or care for, all wearing costumes in varying degrees of silliness.

 

   

 

   The house _itself_ is fine; building appropriately old, layout sprawling, and retaining a few architectural features – especially outdoors – that make it a good choice as a venue for a Halloween-themed party, but even though someone’s made a valiant and solid effort to decorate it so it looks more like the set from a Christopher Lee horror film than the large expensively modern home of the kind of people who buy their good taste from pricey glossy mags, it’s a thin veneer over a shell that’s been updated so thoroughly to accommodate modern living that they’d have had to _undecorate_ and set the clock back a hundred years first before any of the artfully draped cobwebbing and so forth would look like it _really_ belonged here. _ **1**_

 

 

   Rickon’s desensitised to the potentially scary effects of big old houses in general though. That’s just what being brought up in an ancestral home the National Trust would kill to take possession of where _everything’s_ a priceless heirloom of the ages that one’s father can’t bear to tidy into proper storage _or_ throw away does to one.

 

 

   Still, while people might have bought the haunted vibe if this were back at the Winterfell estate where _every_ bloody room is stuffed to the _rafters_ with mouldy old tat dating back to when God was a lad that no one can be arsed to give a good dusting and underfloor heating that hasn’t been serviced since Queen Victoria was in short frocks that groans at the very _idea_ of raising the indoor temperature to anything remotely warm, the one or two pre-war hunting trophies that have survived whatever mid-century stylistic purge the people who live _here_ today have performed on _this_ place just can’t fully support the idea being conveyed that this is an Old House that Might Well Be Full Of Ghosts And Ghoulies.

 

 

   Back home, Rickon thinks someone might easily be forgiven for walking into the library on a gloomy morning and expecting to see a ghost. Here, at best on a dark stormy night you’d expect to see a mid-budget seventies film crew trying to get some good shots of a scene where the ‘ghost’ is revealed to be rattling around the library that’s been pre-dressed with fake books and period-look stationary it’s clear no one has ever used.

 

 

   And _that_ impression’d probably only last until one noticed all the distinctly up-to-date technology peeking out from behind objets d’art and hung discreetly on the walls.

 

 

   It’s possible he’s just chafing at being forced here though, since the party-goers milling about the place and clearly having a grand old time seem to be _thoroughly_ enjoying it all, and in fairness to the arrangers, whichever mate of Sansa’s is behind all this has gone all _out_ . In fact, short of performing the previously mentioned undecorating time travel feat, they probably couldn’t have done a better job with what they’ve had to work with, and it’s obviously enough to do the trick – ha _ha_ – for anyone not lucky enough to have been raised in an old pile of their own that hasn’t been given a modern upgrade unless you count the early 1900’s as ‘modern’.

 

 

   The only two good or halfway-decent things about the actual _party_ itself though are the fact that there is a clearly endless supply of decent free alcohol, and the _excellent_ sound system (so new-looking and sounding it could have been installed yesterday) which has been set up to play an excellent playlist of seasonally-appropriate music not typically appreciated by the masses, neither of which Rickon can find fault with, but Rickon could have been at _Sansa’s_ just as easily, drinking and enjoying decent music for his weekend visiting her at uni – he could have done _without_ this whole party element and being forgotten by the sister he’s here to visit.

 

 

   She’s even forgotten to _feed_ him, although she promised in the car that there’d be food at this party she ambushed him with their needing to attend five seconds after his arrival at her flat, so for lack of anything better to do, Rickon goes in search of a kitchen, because although every single occasional table in this place has clearly been commandeered to hold things like crisps and plastic cups and various alcoholic mixtures and bits from people’s steadily disintegrating costumes both home-made and otherwise, one cannot subsist on these things alone.

 

 

   He’s not disappointed when he finds it – house this big was bound to have a giant kitchen – but although it’s big enough to run a moderately-sized catering company from, it’s also spotless and clinical the way only the kind of huge lavish kitchens belonging to huge lavish houses where the residents either just don’t cook or actually _do_ have everything catered rather than use their own facilities and appliances can be, and even the presence of stacks of jolly-juice and a sea of snacks can’t take away that model-home feeling it all has.

 

 

   Rickon quickly forgets to notice any of that though, because the presence of another person steals his focus, or rather, the fact that said person is perched precariously on a bar-stool in a skirt so _hobblingly_ tailored it’s a miracle they managed to climb up there at _all_ to try and access a cupboard by the window and a miracle Rickon’s not too crippled by his less situationally-aware… hardware, shall we say… by the combination of said tight black skirt and the long black hair just kissing the worst of its straining to dart forward and steady the girl before she topples.

 

 

   “ _Oh!_ ” she exclaims, withdrawing her hand from the cupboard with a smallish box of what looks to be expensive chocolates, and Rickon does his best to remain gentlemanly and not cop a feel as he helps lower her back onto the floor – trying to think of something to say that isn’t just a slightly grumpy-sounding variation on _‘Mind yourself, this isn’t the kind of place that has ghosts, you don’t want to end up haunting whoever lives here after breaking your neck’_ – where she dumps the box on the counter and then sweeps back all her hair.

 

 

   “ _Bloody_ hell!” he shouts, jumping back a bit, because she is _not_ just some shapely bird in a half-hearted Morticia Addams get-up.

 

 

   For one thing, it’s clearly all her _own_ hair, no wig about it, and for another, the _entire_ side of her face and neck is covered in a ghoulishly fake-blood enhanced mottled grey scar so well done and realistic that for a moment there the zombie effect is fairly convincing – to a brain pickled in two drinks swiped on the search for the kitchen on an empty stomach and missing most of the blood it requires to function optimally.

 

 

   His academically-interested semi doesn’t go anywhere, mind, since after all this _is_ a Halloween do and costumes abound, and even if this girl’s face and neck are partially covered in _extremely_ accomplished special-effects makeup, best he’s seen all night , the rest of her face is lovely, interestingly both soft and angular, and her eyes are a beautiful deep, dramatic blue he’s sure is as real as her hair – not that it matters, it’d still be _flattering_ if they were contacts and a wig, it’s just _impressive_ – and honestly the zombie-queen look is clearly _her_ look and also oddly titillating, perhaps because the rest of it _does_ lean heavily towards the Morticia-Addams school of gothic lushness and so does her figure, but either way Rickon is dazed and intrigued and not about to let that bit of first-glance unsettlement get in his way.

 

 

  “ _That_ is a _seriously_ cool look,” he says earnestly, not letting his eyes settle on her chest when he looks from her face to her neck,

 

 

   “Did you do that yourself? I bet it took _ages_ , that’s _proper_ commitment, honestly, that’s fantastic work!”

 

 

   Since he did essentially just shout right in her face, he doesn’t mind that it takes a moment to move from frozen apprehension to a subtle, almost secretive look that’s frankly enough to get him going, figure and fantastic hair notwithstanding, but her voice is sultry horror-show hostess levels of attractive when she says, _ **2**_

 

 

   “It didn’t take as long as you might think, but I didn’t have any help with it, so thank you. It’s nice to be admired for one’s efforts.”

 

 

   “Among other things,” Rickon replies with frank forwardness, and she raises an eyebrow.

 

 

   “Such as?” she prompts, pointing out,

 

 

   “You don’t know whether my other accomplishments are worthy of similar admiration.”

 

 

   “Does wearing that dress like that not count as an accomplishment?” he finds himself asking with genuine interest because he’d have said it _very_ much does, and he wonders briefly where his usual dislike for talking to people has gone and whether it really is as easy as getting a few drinks in him and putting him in front of a pretty girl in a brilliant costume to get him to discover not just a liking for talking to others but also a natural bent for fairly hands-on flirting, but it’s not important, because it makes her laugh and ask,

 

 

   “Should it?” and then she puts on an exaggeratedly pouty disappointed expression and says teasingly,

 

 

   “And here I thought you were just trying to stop me from breaking my neck – I begin to distrust your intentions!”

 

 

   “Only drawback of that get-up I can see is it’s no good for climbing expeditions,” Rickon says shamelessly, and she shrugs.

 

 

  “I wasn’t planning on one, but things happen, and there was no one tall about to prevail upon to do it for me,” she replies calmly, and he allows himself a cheeky grin.

 

 

   “Well, now that’s cleared up and I’m here, is there anything else you can’t reach or need another pair of hands for?” he offers, and she smiles.

 

 

   “Not that I can think just now, but perhaps you shouldn’t go anywhere just yet,” she suggests, and suddenly this whole party mess doesn’t seem like such a massive piss-take on Sansa’s part any more.

 

 

   “Happy not to,” he tells her honestly,

 

 

  “I’ve got nowhere else to be, and I was looking for the food anyway – and better company than anywhere out there.”

 

 

   “Well, take whatever you like,” she invites, opening the little box of chocolates delicately,

 

 

   “And I’ll do my best on the company front.”

 

 

   “Don’t think you have to do much trying,” Rickon grins,

 

 

   “Miss?”

 

 

   “Shireen,” she tells him, popping a chocolate into her mouth and smiling around it with delightfully pursed lips, and he likes her already.

 

 

   “Shireen the Zombie Queen,” he teases her, and she winks.

 

 

   “Something like that,” she allows, and her smile goes secretive again, so he has to ask,

 

 

   “You tonight’s horror hostess then?” and there’s a sparkle in her eyes as she pitches her voice lower to say,

 

 

   “In a manner of shrieking,” and it makes him laugh, which gets him a pleased look and a sweet,

 

 

  “Enough so that I can rifle through the cupboards if I so choose. Care for a chocolate?”

 

 

   She proffers the box, but he shakes his head and tells her,

 

 

   “No thanks, my sister dragged me here without any dinner, I’m actually supposed to be visiting her but she insisted she couldn’t miss this do for the world, so she stuck ears on me and here I am.”

 

 

   “In that case, please, do have at the various refreshments – I wouldn’t want to spoil your dinner,” Shireen says, gesturing in a prompting rather than a shooing sort of way at the other counter-tops and the island, all laden with assorted foodstuffs and drinks, and turning to pick up a glass of what appears to be red wine from behind herself next to the sink under the cupboard she was foraging in earlier, sipping it and then replacing it with a casual, explanatory,

 

 

   “I do hate plastic cups,” which indicates she got it for herself rather than using one of the hundreds of disposables he’s seen about the place that are everywhere to be found, before adding,

 

 

   “If there’s anything you’d like that’s not here, let me know. We can always order in if you’re on the brink of starvation and only something in particular will do the trick. On the house.”

 

 

   She picks up her glass of wine again and relocates from her position leaning against the counter more or less just where he put her before to a seat on another tall bar stool by the island just like the one she was using to climb for the cupboards, leaving the one she was using earlier where it is – perhaps to use again if she decides to go climbing for more things not intended for random public consumption, though he hopes that’s not it because he’s not planning to leave unless she dismisses him and he’s more than happy to fetch her any _number_ of things from high places if she asks and it’s a mite discouraging to think she’s not inclined to ask for his help regardless of how easily she joked about it a few minutes ago – only her ascent this time is so graceful that he’s not sure she even really _needed_ help getting down before, however precarious it looked.

 

 

   He’s also not sure he’s actually interested in food any more, but he does feel starved of _something_ , watching her move. It’s not on the menu, though, he doesn’t think, so when he joins her thoughtlessly at the island and she asks,

 

 

   “Would you like a drink?” he says,

 

 

   “Yes, please,” before he can really decide whether he does, and,

 

 

   “I’m Rickon.”

 

 

   “Welcome, Rickon,” she tells him, lashes heavy over her eyes and the light catching her make-up eerily, and even if she really is neither the _actual_ hostess of this evening as in whichever friend of Sansa’s lives here and is letting everyone use the house for this nor the horror-hostess they’ve been joking she is, she plays both parts very, very well,

 

 

   “What a treat – guest lists are truly overrated when drop-ins these days are of such a high calibre. Not to mention, so usefully tall,” and he smiles at the joke and shrugs.

 

 

   “Maybe you just picked everyone on it really well, so even _their_ unwanted extra-guests can’t be all bad,” he suggests, and _she_ smiles and looks toward the doorway, replying,

 

 

   “Oh, I didn’t curate the guest-list. Just the music, décor, and catering.”

 

 

  “I could have guessed,” Rickon says sincerely,

 

 

   “This is hardly amateur night – someone put in some work, and you definitely look more likely to be up to it than anyone else I’ve seen here yet. Is this your favourite holiday or something?”

 

 

   “I like any excuse to dress up,” Shireen murmurs into her glass, slightly evasive again and with an odd emphasis on the word _dress_ , and Rickon swallows even though he still has yet to eat or drink anything in her presence and then finds he has to stuff something into his mouth so he won’t pursue the topic of being dressed and _how_ even if she was mildly amused by that earlier, and when he’s avoided the urge by smothering it in a tiny randomly-chosen sandwich cut into the shape of a bat that he doesn’t even taste, he comments,

 

 

  “Still – seems like you’ve either done a _lot_ of Googling, or this is your kind of thing. There’s stuff in this playlist you’d have to be in the know to add.”

 

 

   “To _some_ of us, I suppose every day _is_ Halloween to some extent,” she admits, making it very obvious that she’s taking in the purposeful drabness of his monochromatic colour-scheme and his heavy boots, before winking conspiratorially, and he laughs. _ **3**_

 

 

   “Now _that’s_ a classic,” he agrees,

 

 

   “Clearly I’ve found the only aspect of this party worth staying for.”

 

 

   “Were you expecting to be entertained?” she asks with a raised eyebrow and a hint of mirth, and he shakes his head.

 

 

   “I was expecting to spend a quiet, boring weekend visiting my sister, and then she dragged me here and I was expecting to be even more bored just in a different place. My expectations have been _wildly_ exceeded,” he informs her, making an ill-considered attempt to match her for sophisticated delivery, and Shireen’s amusement becomes sardonic.

 

 

   “Are you expecting _me_ to entertain you now, then?” she presents, leadingly, and Rickon shakes his head again, a lot harder.

 

 

  “I wasn’t really expecting _anything_ , but I have to say, Lily Munster’s got nothing on you, and I _am_ having a lot more fun now than I was earlier,” he admits, and Shireen’s voice goes unexpectedly cool, the relaxed, playful light leaving her face as she looks away, suddenly distanced.

 

 

  “I see; well I do hope you aren’t planning to continue _testing_ me to see if I’m the genuine article – you’ll have to take me at my word that there are no boxes of _**Black Number 1.**_ in _my_ cupboards,” she says archly, managing to give him a very pointed look while also removing almost all her attention to the stem of her glass between her fingers, and Rickon smiles. _ **4**_

 

 

  “No testing – wouldn’t dream of it,” he promises, which is perfectly true, that isn’t a game he plays, that whole pointless pathetic ‘ _show me your ___ cred can you even guess this reference_ ’ game some people, especially some _blokes_ , like to play to feel superior and more legitimately _into_ whatever it is they’re working to exclude others from, explaining,

 

 

“I was just trying to be clever and maybe also tell you I think you’re a corker, and since I’m no Peter Steele I thought I’d just borrow off him instead. Mean every word, though.” _ **5**_

 

 

   She doesn’t so much soften up at that as she seems to _liquefy_ slightly with _intent_ , but her smile returns, a more indulgent version of itself, and her shrug is elegant and permissive, and she gives him the leeway of,

 

 

   “I suppose that’s alright then – we can all draw inspiration from the master every now and again,” but makes it a little wicked by giving him another obvious once-over and adding,

 

 

   “Besides – you chose your line well. I don’t mind the comparison at all. So I suppose all you really have in common with that great poet is towering height and a fondness for black?”

 

 

   She must mean what he thinks she does, but he doesn’t want to push it, so he tries for modesty and shrugs back, not quite sure of a safe answer, and maybe she notices that she’s spun her web a little too finely for him to dance on, because she doesn’t press, just takes the last slow sip from her glass and sets it down, asking him with sudden interest as if drawing inspiration from the action,

 

 

   “I don’t suppose you like wine, then? We never did get you that drink…”

 

 

   Rickon has absolutely no opinion on wine of any kind. He also doesn’t want to be a bother of any kind when he just narrowly avoided coming off as a gatekeeping twunt. In an attempt to sidestep going any further down _that_ road while avoiding the sad truth that he’s really an uncultured forest-dwelling recluse even though she doesn’t strike him as one of those wine-snob types who judges everyone by what they drink, he runs with the reference instead and just tries to be funny about it.

 

 

   “I reckon in terms of _interests_ in common with Mr. Steele I’m into _song_ , except I’m nowhere near as talented at it myself; _women_ , except in a far more limited sense and with _far_ less practical application; and _wine_ only in the sense that I can tell red from white but I’ve got no real preference for either and I’m not fussy, so I’ll just have what you’re having,” he lays out, and Shireen’s smile dims slightly.

 

 

   “I believe _his_ fondness for wine was less a _preference_ as such and more a pragmatic choice based in alcoholic tendencies,” she says a little sadly, and then moves on from the tragically untimely death of a legend to share,

 

 

   “But in my case, it’s just that I prefer it to everything else that’s on offer, so if you have no feelings either way, you’re very welcome to join me in a glass.”

 

 

   “Glad to,” Rickon counters promptly, equally glad to see her smile deepen and the hint of wickedness return to her expression. If he has to drink wine to enable that, then so be it. Seems a small price to pay.

 

 

   “Then would you like to accompany me down to the wine cellar?” she asks, quite innocently but with ready amusement behind it and purposely unconcealed, only slightly apologetic when she explains,

 

 

   “That’s where it’s all kept, you see – there’s no real point bringing it out for this sort of thing, people always end up playing silly-buggers with the bottles and getting it everywhere and most of the guests tend to want to actually _drink_ other things anyway, so we only bother if it’s asked for specifically.”

 

 

   It makes a lot of sense, really, and Rickon knows Sansa’s had similar issues when she’s thrown parties, even when all the guests are mostly friends her own age or family members or a mix of both – eventually if it goes on late enough, everyone gets bladdered to the point where they stop acting anything like reasonable adults and turn into teenagers who spill things everywhere and just want to be and get as pissed as possible. Saving the good wine, and indeed anything that costs more than a fiver, is just sensible when you have people round.

 

 

   He does notice however that there is no wine bottle empty or otherwise to be seen in the kitchen, or anything to suggest she’s been sharing, so if she has been the only one drinking the stuff and she now needs to go and fetch a fresh one that means she’s a full bottle of wine into her night at least, which is just something to be aware of. Not that he hasn’t had two drinks already just trying to find the kitchen, so he is in no way judging especially since this _is_ a party and she seems to have been here much longer than he has and she seems in no way impaired, not that he’d be judging if she were, but his responsible side can’t help but make the note. For all he knows she could be on her third and she’s just been tidying away the empties so no one will interfere with them; it really doesn’t matter.

 

 

   Still, there is an obvious joke to be made here, and he’s not going to let this opportunity pass him by.

 

 

   “Makes sense,” he agrees, trying to sound mature even as he struggles to time the joke correctly because it’s so juicy and he doesn’t want to laugh too soon and spoil it, and her eyes sparkle as though that’s _exactly_ what she’s waiting for, so he keeps his face straight as he goes on,

 

 

  “But on the _one_ hand… I’m all for following you into a wine cellar just the two of us, and yet on the _other_ … I can’t help but recall you _were_ slightly annoyed with me just now when you thought I might have been testing you to see if you really are a card-carrying Goff, and I _have_ read _The Cask Of Amontillado…_ ” _ **6**_

 

 

   She breaks before he does, a faint giggle making its way through her lips even though she’s pressed them together firmly in a set little smirk, but her shoulders shake with the rest of the laughter trying to force past her defences, so he exaggerates his concern when he appeals,

 

 

  “But you _have_ forgiven me for that, haven’t you..?” and she utters a muted little shriek of glee that goes right through him in the best way imaginable.

 

 

   “ _Oh_ , absolutely,” she nods, lips trembling with repressed giggles, holding on to composure by a thread and nodding with great faux solemnity,

 

 

   “Quite forgiven. Just a misunderstanding – no need to worry that I have the slightest desire to immure you in the wine cellar of my cousin’s ancestral family home. _Nothing_ could be _further_ from my mind.”

 

 

   “Reassuring,” he proclaims her performance,

 

 

   “And convincing! I see my fears were unfounded – I just have one more question – ”

 

 

   Shireen’s eyes shine as she leans forwards for it, and he asks with theatrical apprehension,

 

 

   “Your last name’s not Montresor, is it?”

 

 

   It’s the end for both of them, and their mutual collapse into helpless laughing is absolutely ridiculous and completely glorious, and Rickon’s beyond chuffed with himself when finally it winds down to a pleasant chortling on both sides and Shireen dabs at her eye and then flashes him a brilliant, glowing grin.

 

 

   “My last name is Baratheon,” she reveals, amidst a few leftover trembles of laughter that she clears her throat of,

 

 

   “And presumably yours is not Fortunato, unless that’s why a trip to the cellar worried you so much?”

 

 

   “It’s Stark,” he tells her with a grin of his own, and then on a whim holds out his arm for her, prompting,

 

 

   “Shall we be off then, Miss Baratheon?”

 

 

   With sweeping drama she allows him to help her descend from the bar stool, and rests her cool, artistically red-clawed hand on his, her empty wine glass in the other as she gestures with it towards the entranceway on the other side of the kitchen beyond which Rickon has yet to venture, indicating,

 

 

   “We shall. Right this way, Mr. Stark...”

 

 

   There are fewer people to dodge around and ignore on this side of the house, he observes, shoring up his earlier observation that the main action of the evening is clearly being presided over by Sansa and her mates somewhere to the back of the main building in which direction she buggered off to the minute they arrived, which suits him fine, but actually Shireen doesn’t lead him very far past the kitchen – only just through an adjoining living room – before moving to a gilded archway with an equally ostentatiously gilded ironwork gate set into it, beyond which is darkness, and entering a few numbers into a keypad on the wall beside it, making the gate’s lock click open with a jarringly smooth sound totally at odds with the baroque look of the whole mess, and she pushes the gate open and steps in front of him, looking over her shoulder with mild apology and explaining as if immeasurably bored and slightly embarrassed by the truths she’s about to impart,

 

 

   “My uncle is one of those wine _enthusiasts_ who imports and goes on tasting trips and so on – this is all _his_ influence. My aunt and other uncle who actually _live_ here couldn’t care less about vintages and what-have-you; they both just like a drink. They _do_ care about _money_ , however, and appearances, so they’ve got quite the collection of rare bits in amongst all the ordinary plonk. Hence the security measures.”

 

 

   She flicks on the lights and Rickon can see by the aged look of the stone stairs and the masonry of the arch that this was probably always a cellar entrance and has likely been part of the house since day one. There’s similar nonsense underneath his parents’ estate at Winterfell, only _they_ haven’t gotten around to installing newish lighting, and so even if his parents _did_ use their cellars for wine storage, one would have to be _very_ careful going down to pick out the evening’s bottle pre-dinner. Not so here, where the well-lit stairwell actually looks almost warm and inviting.

 

 

   Almost as warm and inviting as Shireen’s eyes when he smiles at her and tells her,

 

 

   “Makes sense,” but perhaps most inviting of _all_ is the sinuous way her tight skirt forces her to move as she starts her descent, one hand still holding her glass, the other delicately sliding down the golden railing affixed to the wall. Rickon can’t speak to her warmth in _that_ respect, though – she certainly hasn’t seemed to run as hot as he does when he’s had occasion to touch her so far, but that’s fine.

 

 

   Rickon likes the cold.

 

 

   “Pull the gate shut, would you?” Shireen’s voice drifts behind the waft of her hair as she walks, adding,

 

 

   “I don’t want people wandering around down here. It’ll lock automatically.”

 

 

   Rickon obliges her silently, more than a little dry-mouthed from over-exposure to the view, and catches up easily enough, reaching the bottom only half a second after she does, and taking in the surroundings as she makes her way down the spacious corridor lined with a row of alcoves, all with the same domed ceilings, all stuffed full of uniformly-built wine racks proving that this space has indeed been converted wholeheartedly into a wine cellar, and noticing idly that some of the alcoves have gates on them similar to the one upstairs through which they entered.

 

 

   Her heels make an intriguing sound on the worn stone floor, the echo around them muted as though money’s been spent to keep the acoustics down here soft despite all the exposed stonework, and Rickon can barely hear the music from upstairs any more.

 

 

   At the end of the passage, there’s a larger alcove and then another area laid out much like the first branching off from it, except all the alcoves’ wine racks are protected with gates down there, and Rickon doesn’t spare them much thought, because Shireen has moved to a large, comfortable settee adjacent to an aged-looking barrel upon which stands an assortment of bottles, a few glasses, and a fancy-looking holder of some kind for what looks like numerous sizes of corkscrew.

 

 

   “Have a seat, Rickon,” she suggests, already setting down her glass and busy uncorking one of the bottles, her voice mingling musically with the sound of trickling liquid, and he sits down on the plush violet velvet of the absurdly carved and gilded settee and rests his arm along the back and the heel of one boot on the glass coffee table in front of it, noticing as he tilts his head that there is a security camera facing them on the wall opposite.

 

 

   “Quite the set-up your aunt and uncle have here,” he comments idly, and Shireen makes a low sound and turns back towards him, leaning in to hand him a glass of red that he reaches for with a nod of thanks.

 

 

   “My other uncle, Renly, hosts _gatherings_ here sometimes for various people who are equally potty and pretentious about this sort of thing,” she replies as their hands brush, voice a touch derisive, and when she straightens and turns back for her own refilled glass and the bottle she just opened, she adds as an afterthought,

 

 

   “My aunt enjoys it because it sometimes gets her mentioned in those magazines they all read, and she likes having the house photographed. Uncle Renly isn’t much for strangers in _his_ house, likes a different crowd _there_ , so it suits everyone better.”

 

 

   She sets the bottle on the glass coffee table, ignores the fact that his boot’s still propped on the edge – which is just as well, because he realises much too late how rude that is of him to have done and how out of his depth he is sitting in this gilded monument to money and ego with this sublime, sophisticated creature like something straight out of a film, holding a glass of red wine like that’s a thing that he does, _wearing bloody_ _**ears** _ _on a bloody headband_ – and shakes her hair back a bit as she settles next to him, legs swept sideways to face him, holding her glass out between them with a slightly self-deprecating smile the reason for which Rickon can’t quite grasp.

 

 

   “But never mind _that_ ,” she continues, leaning in to very gently slide the edge of her glass against his where he’s holding it loosely, the sound it makes a little bit eerie and the light catching her eyes and the fake blood on her face an odd contrast of life and simulated death, and her voice is a soft, soft tease as she proposes,

 

 

   “A toast… To the glorious mysteries of life...” and Rickon’s hand trembles, but he covers it by swirling the wine in his glass with overdone contemplativeness and a knowing glance at the excessive elevation of alcohol to the level of performance art that they’re surrounded by, feeling safe enough to do so based on how unimpressed by it she seems and hoping she might at least find it funny even if she doesn’t take this to its natural conclusion when he wryly adds,

 

 

   “To all that binds a family as one,” and her eyes narrow in wicked amusement and dance with promises, encouraging him onward -

 

 

   “To mirth, to merriment,” and then with a theatrical gulp and wide-eyed look at the row of gated alcoves just past where they’re sitting,

 

 

   “To manslaughter..?” _ **7**_

 

 

   Her laugh is sudden and bright and delightful, and when it subsides, she leans just a little closer, shakes her head ever so slightly, and instead suggests,

 

 

  “To dear friends!” and Rickon rests his glass on his propped-up leg, and with what he hopes is restraint offers,

 

 

   “To new friends?” and Shireen’s smile deepens.

 

 

   “To youth!” she proclaims, holding up her glass as if to end it there, and he mirrors her, tamping down the disappointment he can’t help but feel that maybe he was wrong – he wasn’t expecting anything, he won’t push for anything, but, still… There was a brief moment where he thought…

 

 

   Shireen touches her lips to the rim of her glass briefly, then pauses, lashes flickering, and when she looks up at him again, there’s a hint of what he’d call doubt or maybe regret before a veil of heat obscures all that, and she tilts her head towards the arm he’s leaning on the back of the settee and lifts her free hand to ghost along his sleeve towards his shoulder, glancing at an angle at his face in question as she very softly utters,

 

 

   “To passion..?”

 

 

   There’s no hiding the hope under the honest gravel in his throat which that causes, or the sincere offer in his reply under the guise of jocular commitment to their shared joke when he says,

 

 

   “To paradise...” and Shireen’s glance falls to somewhere between them, face immobile and inscrutable, and he wavers between wanting to check that he hasn’t gone too far and the fear that if he speaks again he’ll fracture whatever this is before she’s decided what to make of it, but after he’s been holding his breath for what feels like far too long, the very faint hint of the music playing above their heads filtering down through polished wood floors and stone that’s been here at least two hundred years or so and adding to the thumping of his blood in his ears, Shireen’s lips quirk, tremble, and twitch, and she looks back up at him, tips her glass to him, and drains her wine in a long, elegant swallow.

 

 

   His eyes burn from meeting her gaze without blinking and his chest aches with the need to breathe and his throat is clenched and full of things he wants to tell her, but he washes it down with the dry bite of red wine wondering briefly if she just did much the same, and she smiles too darkly for the gilt ambience of the well-lit space they’re in, refills both their glasses with practised deftness, and this time she does toast, almost like a challenge,

 

 

   “To pain.”

 

 

   To night, Rickon thinks, focusing on the black of her hair, and says, tongue parched and voice drenched,

 

 

   “Tonight...”

 

 

   Her smile and her laugh twine around each other like an answer to the question, red as the glow from their glasses and her nails.

 

 

   Upstairs, he can almost hear a familiar song playing, and her lips move, and Rickon’s barely listening, but it feels like,

 

 

   “ _Tonight_...” and it tastes like wine, _and the beast inside of me is gonna get you, get you, yeah - **8**_

 

 

   -

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1 - Sir Christopher Lee was a great man. A heavy metal icon, a fabulous actor, and an absolute legend. If you aren't already aware of his many accomplishments, look him up.
> 
> 2 - A horror hostess acts as the hostess or presenter of a program where horror films and low-budget B movies are shown on television or the internet. Usually the hostess assumes a horror-themed persona, often a campy or humorous one. Generally there are breaks in the film where they comment on various aspects of the movie. Many horror host shows also include skits involving the hosts themselves, sometimes with a sidekick or other supporting characters. Some better-known horror hosts include Vampira and Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. 
> 
> 3 - 'Everyday Is Halloween' is a classic song by Ministry and a Goth staple.
> 
> 4 - This references Type O Negative's 'Black Number 1'. Find it in the full version, become enlightened beings.
> 
> 5 - Pete Steele was Type O Negative's frontman and singer, a very tall statuesque gent who tragically battled many horrible personal demons and died fairly young. Here his alcoholism is referenced as well as his status as a Goth icon and reputation as a great lover of women. Look him up, he doesn't disappoint. He also once appeared in PlayGirl, and it was excellent.
> 
> 6 - This is one long reference to Poe's Cask of Amontillado story, a charming short about a fellow immuring another fellow in the wall of his wine cellar/catacomb for some slight never clearly described. If you're on Tumblr you probably saw this become a meme. It was glorious. If not, go and look it up and have a laugh.
> 
> 7 - Everything they say here is from the toast given by Gomez Addams at the end of 'Addams Family Values', they're purposely quoting it as it goes from purely funny and friendly to full-throttle sensual flirtation as a way to share a joke and figure out what they're doing here together.[return to text]
> 
> 8 - The last bit is from Type O Negative's 'Love You To Death'. Go and listen to it. Just bloody do it.  
>  <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8S8Iz0mGs_U>


End file.
